


It Felt Like You

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: BFF Halloweek Prompt: We’re in costume and I know exactly who you are but pretend I don’t so I have an excuse to make out with you just once.OR: Clarke pines for her best friend. Bellamy kisses a stranger at a party. The two things are not entirely unrelated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It should be noted that drinking and drunkenness play a little bit of a role here. No one is taken advantage of against their will or anything like that, but yeah, if it's something you'd like to avoid, that's your prerogative.
> 
> That makes it sound way darker than it is. It's so fluffy, I promise. Enjoy!

“Remind me why you’re not going, again?” Bellamy groans, head tipping back over the arm of Clarke’s sofa.

She walks past him on her way to the kitchen and flicks a finger softly against the crease above his brow. He scowls halfheartedly at her, but doesn’t move from his position on the couch.

She does not, notably, run a hand through his hair where it’s fallen back from his forehead. Doesn’t even want to. She definitely doesn’t have to deny that compulsion.

“I told you,” she says. “The hospital’s doing Halloween a day early this year so that on _actual_ Halloween people with _actual_ lives,” she gestures grandly to herself and Bellamy scoffs, earning himself another flick, “can hang out with their _actual_ friends.”

He does perk up a little at that. “We’re still marathoning old scary movies, right?”

She grins. “Absolutely.” It’s their best tradition, as far as she’s concerned. Which is completely unrelated to the fact that it gives her an excuse to snuggle up next to him under the pretense of fear.

“It would be a lot easier to be upset with you if you didn’t have such a noble reason,” Bellamy concedes after a moment, looking up at her from the couch, his eyes rolled comically high toward his brow to look at her.

“It’s almost like I went into pediatrics just to spite you.”

“That’s what I’m saying, yeah.”

“Hey, you’re the one who agreed to Raven’s party, not me.”

“I figured you’d be going!” he says, finally sitting up to more properly pout at her. “I wouldn’t have agreed to go to a party alone.”

“Alone,” she deadpans. “At a party with all of our friends.”

“You know what I mean,” he says offhandedly. “You won’t be there.”

A reflexive twitch runs down her fingertips.

She does know what he means, and it makes her heart ache and soar simultaneously. They are, for lack of a better term, each other’s _person._ And though they do have the same group of friends, it’s also true that, when that group gets divided up, it’s rare that it’s not her and Bellamy wandering through museum alcoves, exploring the furthest shelves in the back of a dim bookstore far past the time they were supposed to rendezvous with the group. They’re inseparable. He’s her best friend.

She’s also in love with him, which is definitely only a perk in rom coms, as she’s come to realized over the last couple years. Because though the fluffy movies get the underlying feeling of bubbly warmth right, they don’t tend to cover the part where the best friend doesn’t feel the same way.

Which isn’t to say that she’s just hanging around Bellamy because she likes the pain of it. His friendship is her most valuable possession, and she knows he loves her, in some sense of the word.

She knows this because he’s _Bellamy_ and everything he does for the people he cares about drips with affection. But she knows it _more specifically_ because of one night in particular.

A few months ago, he’d moved into one of the units in her apartment building when the lease was up on his old place across town. She was, admittedly, fairly surprised when he started seriously considering the openings in her building at her suggestion. It’s not an expensive place, but it is a step up from his old place, and she’d known how hard it is for him to see the practicality of spending more money on a place that’s more than a couple levels above unlivable.

When she’d expressed this surprise though, he’d just shrugged.

“You’re right. I can afford it now. Plus it’s way closer to the museum, so at least some of the extra money I’m spending on rent will be made up by the bus money I’ll save by walking to work.”

“That’s very… reasonable of you.”

“Hey, I can be reasonable.”

“I mean, yeah, clearly,” she says with a grin. “This is just the first instance where I’ve gotten to experience it.”

“Shut up.”

But him moving here isn’t the reason she knows he values her friendship as much as she does his. That honor belongs to the night a couple weeks after he made the move. It’s become so much easier to hang out at the drop of a hat--and only marginally more painful, crush-wise--when he only lives a floor away.

That particular night finds them passing a bottle of wine back and forth across her sofa, while Tarzan plays on the TV across from them. They’ve both had shitty days and it is Clarke’s (correct) opinion that Disney movies are the best reward for getting through long shifts.

“Like honestly, let’s not pretend that any movie has a better soundtrack this one,” she says halfway through, when her body is warm from the alcohol and her legs are sprawled across Bellamy’s lap. “People who don’t think Phil Collins is a genius can fight me.’

He turns to her, like either he’s going to reprimand her internet centric phrasing, or pledge his dedication to her cause. Honestly, both options are equally likely at their current level of inebriation.

Instead, he just stares.

“This is the part where you say that my vernacular shows I spend too much time on the internet.”

“You’re the best,” he says.

She looks more closely at him, and the softness in his eyes sends a familiar pang through her heart.

“Thanks Bell,” she says, quiet.

“I mean it though,” he persists, eyes widening comically. “You’re just… the best. You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d do plenty without me,” she says, grinning at his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, but like, you make it better.” Before she can blush, he goes on. “I’ve never had a best friend before and it’s just…” he scrambles for words, hands twitching where they rest on her ankles. “You’re the _best._ Like, we agree on all the important things and you like, fight me on the things that we don’t agree on. And you’re so _smart_ and _good_ . You save kids for a living. Who _does_ that?”

“A fair amount of people,” she supplies, a comfortable warmth settling in her face.

“Not like you though. You care for all the right reasons.”

“Yeah, well, so do you.”

He scoffs. “Caring about history isn’t the same as caring about kids.”

She kicks her foot against his thigh. “Hey, your Tuesday afternoon children’s tour single handedly accounts for the most popular weekday at the museum.”

“That’s not the same as _saving kids_ Clarke.”

She thinks they’re pretty analogous though. She’s so fucking amazed by how good he is with them.

But there isn’t a chance to say that, because he’s still waxing on about her, and how she’s the _best._

And, okay, she doesn’t know for _sure_ that it means he doesn’t want to date her, but she kind of figures that if he was drunk enough to go on fifteen minute ramble about how great she is, any romantic feelings he had toward her probably would have bubbled to the surface as well.

“I’ll just have to survive without you for a night,” present, mopey Bellamy says, on a sigh.

In another context, the words could mean something different and deeper, but Clarke’s pretty happy with what she’s got going for her, best friend wise.

“Yeah, I guess you will.”

He sticks his tongue out at her, and she grins back, wide. Yeah, what she’s got isn’t bad at all.

*

**Bellamy:**

Monty and Jasper are already high

how do they do it that fast

**Me:**

It’s impressive and terrifying

**Bellamy:**

Mostly terrifying

How are the kids?

 

Even knowing she’s missing out on Raven’s party, October 30th at the children’s hospital is absolutely not the worst. The kids are adorable and excited, and Maya’s planned enough activities--trick-or-treating from room to room, a craft room filled with halos and masks and anything an 5-10 year old could need to make their own costume--to keep them going for hours to come.

 

**Me:**

Good. Happy, which is the goal.

**Bellamy:**

and how about you?

 

She hides her smile under the brim of the flimsy witch hat atop her head.

 

**Me:**

I’m good too. Doing art with kids is kind of my happy place.

**Bellamy:**

like I said, noble

**Me:**

Shut up

**Bellamy:**

k have fun, party with would be better with you here

**Me:**

so sentimental

how many shots have you done with Miller so far?

**Bellamy:**

none

maybe a few

**Me:**

Make good choices

I have to go help Maya, text you later

**Bellamy:**

ttyl princess

 

She has to stifle a laugh and wave off Maya’s questioning look. He’s definitely tipsy. Which is rude. Being drunk shouldn’t be this cute.

“Do you mind helping out at the mask station?” Maya asks, handing her another box of craft supplies from a cupboard. “Fox was going to do it, but she called in sick.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Thanks Clarke.”

It’s a good idea, because it keeps her mind off her slightly tipsy, _very_ affectionate best friend. So she dives into the crafts, helping Mandy add cat whiskers to her mask, drawing in the details on Toby’s red and gold ironman portrayal.

About an hour in, she leans back in her chair to stretch her neck, extending her legs under the table. She’s ready to get back into it when Lily pops up at her elbow.

“Can I make a mask for you, Miss Clarke?”

“For me? Don’t you want to work on your own?”

“I already did mine earlier!” she says, and sure enough, Clarke catches sight of the sparkly pink, feathered creation in her hand.

“And you’d really rather make one for me instead of doing one of the other crafts?”

“I want to practice drawing! You’re so good at it, so you can teach me.”

And Clarke can’t say no to that.

“You’re a witch so I’m gonna do something scary. Spiderwebs,” the little girl decides after Clarke agrees, pulling a black marker and vivid blue paper mask toward herself, face set in concentration.

“Spiderwebs it is,” Clarke agrees.

 

**Bellamy:**

sure you can’t come

?

miss you

**Me:**

we’re hanging out tomorrow remember?

play video games with Monty, that’ll make you feel better

 

A couple hours pass, and she gets lost in helping the kids. By the time Maya comes by to tell everyone it’s time to call it a night, Clarke’s hands are covered in glitter and marker smudges.

She’s fairly unprepared when Maya says, while they’re cleaning up, “Your boyfriend’s at that party right? You should go, see if you can catch him.”

Clarke can only gape for a moment, trying to recall the times she’s mentioned Bellamy to Maya, and if she’s really _that obvious._

“You’re still in costume, so go,” Maya prompts, before Clarke can correct her. “I can finish up here.”

And it’s not like she’s going to turn down the chance to hang out with her favorite people, so she washes off as much glitter as she can, and sets off.

(She’s not thinking about surprising one person in particular, _shut up._ )

*

True to Raven fashion, the party is spectacular. Every inch of the apartment is dripping with decorations, and it’s dim, every bulb in sight replaced with blacklights. She definitely walks into a fake spiderweb within a minute of coming through the door.

The hostess herself is the first person to notice her, but she’s pretty sure Raven’s too drunk to recognize her.

“You! Welcome to the party! Shots!”

Which is how she ends up with two shots in her hands and a very excited Furiosa--complete with a braced leg in the stead of a braced arm--who won’t leave her alone until she downs them, wincing a little at the burn. No doubt Monty's creation.

With Raven placated, she goes looking for Bellamy, alcohol warm in her veins, peering into dark corners, dodging dancing party-goers, and walking in on more than one hasty liplock.

Finally, she spots him on a bar stool along the edge of the living room, looking brooding and grumpy and... ridiculously good. She’d known he was coming as Apollo and that he’d been adorably excited about the costume. What she _didn’t_ know is that a toga could be _hot_.

There’s a lot of arms happening and she’s only fucking human. It’s not fair.

Eventually she forces her jaw closed and makes her way toward him through the crowd, helpless in resisting the grin that spreads across her face as she gets closer.

In lieu of a greeting when she reaches him, she snatches his hand from his lap, watching and savoring the surprise on his face as she pulls him up, walking them backward toward where people are dancing in the middle of the room.

It takes a moment for the confusion to clear his face, when it does, it’s replaced not with a smile like she expected, but with a darkening of his eyes that sends a thrill through her chest. He follows her to the dance floor, and shows no resistance when she starts moving to the pounding music.

They're dancing close, still comfortably wordless, and her racing heart underlies a happy heat in her cheeks. Maybe she was wrong about how he felt. It’s not entirely impossible that he could feel the same. Not delusional at all. She’s about to tease him for his insistence that she come to the party, when he leans down a little to say something in her ear.

His voice is deep, sending shivers down her spine, but his words stop her fuzzy feelings cold in their tracks.

“Are you a friend of Raven’s?”

She grins for a moment, because, he’s messing with her, right? But when her eyes meet his she finds...genuine curiosity. And in a sickening wave of realization, she considers her costume--the mask, the hat--in combination with the dim lights of the party.

He doesn’t recognize her.

Which means, to him, he’s dancing with a stranger. A non-Clarke person. Not his best friend.

 _Because he wouldn’t dance with her like this,_ a helpful voice in the back of her head supplies.

In a rush of nerves, she nods hastily to his question, lacking the words, or courage, to say, ‘Oh no, it’s me. Your best friend who’s in love with you.’

But he doesn’t seem to be looking for conversation anyways, just mirrors her nod and returns to dancing too close to her. Much too close.

And not too close at all. Because this is what she wants, isn’t it? The sinking of her stomach reminds her of the reality of the situation and tells her that no, she doesn’t want to be lying to her best friend, especially not when he’s dancing with her like this, not when he thinks _she’s some other girl._ Not when he clearly doesn’t feel the same.

But the shots are still in her system and she’s come all the way here, and the heat of his skin makes her think that maybe she’s allowed to make a bad decision now and then. The warmth in her veins tells her this is a good idea. How could it be a _bad_ idea when it feels like this? _When is she ever going to have a chance like this again?_

When she looks up though, his eyes are still Bellamy’s, and she still wants to kiss him.

And with aching sadness mixing with alcohol in her chest, she does.

And it’s perfect. She surges up to catch his lips and though it takes him a second to respond, when he does it’s in earnest, soft and demanding at the same time, better and different that she could have imagined, because it’s _real_. She weaves a hand into his hair, and with the alcohol making her bold, she gives it a gentle tug and is rewarded with a deep groan, as his fingers tighten on her waist, pulling her closer.

Even in the lust-filled haze, he’s attentive, mirroring her kisses, repeating the things that make her shiver in his arms. One of his hands makes his way to her neck, rubbing heat into the hollow behind her ear. She melts.

She’s not sure how long it’s been when she feels his fingers dancing along the edge of her mask, where it meets her cheekbones. She wonders if he can feel her heartbeat beneath her skin. And for a second she almost hopes that he’ll lift it. That he’ll see it’s her and that he won’t be disappointed. That he’ll smile her favorite smile and kiss her again.

But a second later, his fingers fall from the mask to tangle in her hair instead, and she loses track of her vain hopes in the wash of _Bellamy_ that sweeps over her.

Moments later, she belatedly notices the stillness in his hands as he pulls back too soon-- _not soon enough,_ the practical side of her brain supplies--pupils blown wide, looking horrified, and for a second she _swears_ he knows.

But instead of her name, he says, rushed, “I’m sorry, I--I shouldn’t do this. You’re great but... there’s someone else.”

He looks genuinely remorseful, like _he’s_ the one who kissed their best friend without their knowledge, whose lips still burn from it. Shame hits her hard and then stays curled in her stomach, making a home there.

Shame, and a deeper sadness, because _there’s someone else_.

Before she can do anything _worse_ than she’s done already, she nods emphatically--not trusting her voice, or his familiarity with it--and gives him has much of an understanding smile as she can muster before turning to flee the room, blood pumping in her ears, a wave of sound blocking out everything else.

*

Fifteen minutes later she fumbles her way through unlocking her door, slamming it behind her. Making a beeline for her bedroom, she tosses the hat and mask on her dresser, more disgusted with herself by the second and eager to be rid of her ridiculous, manipulative disguise.

A chorus of _what have you done_ 's rings through her mind and she collapses into bed, hoping that sleep will come easy, but as the buzz of alcohol fades, regret sits heavy in her stomach. It takes hours for her eyes to drift shut.

The light of day does nothing to ease the guilt, and it comes accompanied with a hangover, which she definitely deserves.

It doesn’t seem right at all, when, around midday, Bellamy texts her about their plans for that night, like nothing is new. She tries to respond as normally as possible.

 

**Bellamy:**

Morning. Hungover. I was gonna come over at like, 2, but I need some recovery time.

**Clarke:**

No worries. Come around 6? Or whenever.

**Bellamy:**

6 is good

I’ll bring frozen pizza

**Clarke:**

My hero.

 

The extra time is good, in that it puts off the exacerbation of guilt that will no doubt accompany his presence, and bad, because now she has more time for over-analyzation and dread.

It’s almost a relief when he finally shows up, until she has to look at his face, and is treated to flashes of the night before. His hands on her, his lips. Guilt and more guilt.

“Hey,” he says, like nothing is wrong in the world. “Pizza in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

She catches sight of a fleck of glitter in his hair as he passes by, remembers with a sharp pang the glitter on her hands last night that hadn’t all washed away. Her chest squeezes tighter in on itself as she follows him in.

They putter around the kitchen for a few minutes, getting snacks ready for their movie marathon. Where she’ll be sitting next to him for hours. Feeling like the worst best friend in the history of best friends. Fantastic. She forces herself to focus on the task at hand, pouring a combination of candy corn and m&ms into a bowl as Bellamy makes idle conversation.

It should be weird. Well, not for him, she supposes, since he's innocent in all this. But she’s definitely _acting_ weird, bumping into things, stumbling over words when she asks what movie they should watch first.

But he just keeps not commenting on it. Or maybe not even noticing it, though she can’t see how. She feels like she’s wearing a giant neon sign that says “ _I’m uncomfortable.”_ Or maybe just “ _I’m a terrible friend.”_

Even through all her awkwardness, she keeps expecting him to mention what happened to him the night before. Not that he tells her about all his random hookups, but he also doesn’t get drunk that often, and moaning to her about his bad choices is kind of exactly his brand of therapy. But he doesn’t say anything at all, and it would be weird for her to pry.

Then there’s the part she’s been trying to forget, the _someone else_ who he apparently has feelings for.

“Hey,” he says, jarring her out of her thoughts. They’ve migrated out of the kitchen into the living room now. “We should have a blanket right?”

“Oh yeah, of course. There’s one at the end of my bed.”

“Cool, I’ll grab it.”

“Thanks.”

She sinks back against the couch when he leaves, forcing out a long breath. She’s going to have to tell him eventually, if this is how hard it is to get through one night. But just thinking about how it would feel to tell him, the look on his face, makes her nauseous, so she takes to picking at the fraying threads of the couch instead.

It takes her longer than it should to realize that he’s been gone for a while.

“Bellamy?” she calls. “Did you find it?”

When he doesn’t respond, she gets up to find him, walking down the hallway and peering into her room…

...to find him at her dresser, the blanket forgotten in his left hand, her flimsy paper mask held in his right.

She’s done a fair amount of misreading his expressions in the last 24 hours, but this one is _definitely_ recognition. Her heart plummets. _This is happening now, then._

“I’m sorry!” she blurts.

He flinches a little, like he hadn’t heard her arrive, and turns to her, slow.

“I’m so sorry,” she rambles on. “We finished early at the hospital and then I thought I’d surprise you and… I don’t know what got a hold of me. I’m so, so sorry.” It doesn’t feel like enough at all.

“You’re sorry for… what? For kissing me? ...Or for not telling me?” he asks eventually, face unreadable.

“For not telling you!” she says, because she _is_ sorry for that, but then she considers the world where she’s possibly made her favorite person uncomfortable around her and her heart twists. “I don’t know! Both, I guess. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” She can’t fathom what’s okay about this situation.

“I was, um,” he looks at her like he’s testing the waters (for what, she hasn’t the slightest idea), “really bummed when I found out you weren’t going.”

She has no idea where he’s going with this. “Uh, yeah, you told me as much.”

“No, but, not just because you weren’t going to be there. But that you weren’t going to see my costume.”

She can feel the furrow between her brows deepen. “Okay…”

He takes a step closer. “Because I was going to look _so hot_ Clarke.”

She laughs a little, despite herself. Is he seriously trying to make _her_ feel better? “Yeah, well, I was there after all to appreciate your hotness.”  _A little too much, maybe._

“Well I know that _now._ But at the time my plan was falling apart.”

“Your plan,” she says.

“For you to see how hot I was.”

She doesn’t say anything. Because she’s not sure if her subconscious is supplying the undertone to his words, or if he’s actually implying what she thinks he is. That somehow he’s not mad, or weirded out that she kissed him. So she just stares. Surely this is just him being an incredible friend. Going above and beyond _forgiving_ her to make it into a joke. To make her feel better.

“I’m not good at this, Clarke,” he says after a long, silent second, pained, and it sends relief tumbling over her.

Her words tumble out in frustration. “ _Good?_ You don’t have to be _good_ at anything!” she splutters. “I _kissed_ you! Literally all you have to do is say that you didn’t hate it and--”

“You were drunk!”

“So were you!”

He blinks at her, like he hadn’t considered this. Like he was possibly the only one in this situation who has no grasp on what the other is thinking.

“It felt like you,” he says after a moment.

“Oh,” is the only word she can seem to produce.

“And apparently drinking makes me mope about being in love with you.”

Breathing feels like a foreign concept.

“And here was this girl, who looked and felt like you. And she wanted to dance with me, and I couldn’t help thinking that maybe this was as close as I was ever going to get.”

And though breathing and speaking seem out of reach, it’s somehow easy to take a step closer, to rest a hand tentatively against his cheek.

He leans into it. “And it was you.”

There’s still a question in his eyes, and it makes her find words. “It was me, yeah.”

“And you knew it was me?” he asks, skeptical.

She can’t help the laugh that bubbles from her throat. Like there’s any way she’s not in love with him. “Yeah, I knew it was you.”

He finally smiles then, mirroring her with a hand cradling her face. And though no instance of kissing Bellamy is going to be _bad_ for her, kissing him when he _knows_ it’s her he’s kissing is definitely an upgrade.

(“Hey Clarke,” he says when they pull apart.

“Hm?”

“Just so you know, I didn’t hate that.”

“God, why do I love you?”)

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t drink much, so I don’t really know how alcohol intake works. Just assume Clarke drank enough to make her more daring than she should have been, and Bellamy drank enough to make dancing with the-girl-who-looks-like-his-best-friend-who-he’s-in-love-with look really appealing. I hope the suspension of reality there doesn’t subtract from the fluff. Cliched plot device? What? Where?
> 
> Hope it was enjoyable. :)
> 
> You can always find me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com), if you want!


End file.
